


Bishops Knife Trick

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Category: DCU
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Cover Art, Dick Grayson Has Issues, Dick Grayson Has Secrets, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil Dick Grayson, Evil Slade Wilson, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied Sexual Content, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Has a Heart, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Loving Marriage, M/M, Marriage, Mental Instability, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Tattoos, Undercover Missions, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a lot of these tags are here just for safety's sake, but not really, it's primarily in the past though, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: Sometimes, sleep wasn't achievable.Tonight, because of anxiety, he found himself on the roof of his apartment building at nearly three in the morning, wishing for a beer or a cigarette or something to curb the way his brain was bitching.No one would ever know the extent of what Slade had taught him to do, as long as he could just keep from saying anything or falling into the trained habits.And there it was.There was the crux of it.The center of the thoughts plaguing him tonight―working for Slade, and how horrible a person he’d been when he was under his employ.-OR-Working for Slade left Dick with a lot of scars, mental and physical.Allowing himself to be taken 'captive' and thrown to the mercy of the man, finding himselfworking for him again, is opening nearly all of them back up.And he isn't sure he's strong enough to stitch them up this time.He isn't even sure he wants to.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Red X, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Red X, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Roy Harper/Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	Bishops Knife Trick

**Author's Note:**

> _"These are the last blues we're ever gonna have  
>  Let's see how deep we get  
> The glow of the cities below lead us back  
> To the places that we never should have left."_  
>    
> _"And I know I should walk away,  
>  Know I should walk away,  
> But I just want to let you break my brain  
> And I can't seem to get a grip  
> No matter how I live with it."_
> 
> -Fall Out Boy, "Bishops Knife Trick"
> 
> Just a couple of lines that really influenced the way this piece turned out >w>

☆☆☆

Sometimes, sleep wasn’t achievable.

This was a truth that Dick had come into, and accepted wholeheartedly, by the time he was ten. A truth that followed him and remained unchanging as the years went by.

Sometimes, sleep wasn’t achievable.

The only part that really changed was the reason  _ why _ it wasn’t achievable. It could vary from night to night, and usually did.

Most of the time, if he was having trouble sleeping, it was an issue of anxiety and overthinking. Sometimes it was the knowledge he was  _ definitely _ going to have a nightmare if he went to sleep... Sometimes it was just a matter of being unable to fall asleep no matter how long he laid in one position with his eyes closed.

Tonight was an anxiety night, technically.

… Technically.

Anxiety nights typically found some focus on what he could be doing wrong, why he wasn’t good enough, and pretty much everything that had ever gone wrong  _ ever. _ He usually did a lot of thinking about all his mistakes and letting himself spiral down until eventually he gave himself a harsh metaphorical kick in the ass and eased himself out of bed so he could go do something useful instead.

Tonight was not a night quite of that nature.

It was an anxiety night, certainly, but not of the usual breed.

He found himself on the roof of his apartment building at nearly three in the morning, wishing for a beer or a cigarette or  _ something _ to curb the way his brain was bitching. But there was nothing that could help―sure, he could go to the store, he could get something to ease this, but… It wasn’t  _ healthy _ to turn to any of his go-to ideas. He couldn’t just drink this away, or suck down clouds of nicotine until he forgot how it felt to breathe normal air. It wasn’t going to go away with enough cigarettes and beer.

Regrettably, the thoughts spinning out in his head right now were part of him.

And unpleasant part, to be sure, but part of him and not easily gotten rid of as a result. Even the worst parts of him had his hard head.

And tonight’s unpleasant thoughts put another level of difficulty on the idea of going to get something to drown the thoughts out―keeping them at bay in the presence of someone else until after it was reasonable to shake a cig out of a pack and light up, or pop the cap off a beer bottle. They weren’t the sort of thoughts that just  _ went away. _ Pushing them to the back of his mind to go to the store was…

Well, it wasn’t likely to work out, was all.

If he was honest, he’d been pushing them aside since he woke up this morning, and his patience and willpower were running a little thin now. He hadn’t even been able to go on patrol, which definitely contributed in part to his inability to sleep, but the primary culprit was the all-too familiar set of thoughts… As usual, for nights when they cropped up. They were kind of all-consuming.

So here he sat, on the roof of his apartment building, at three in the morning, praying none of the so-called BatFamily came patrolling in this part of the city.

That was the last thing he needed, after all.

He sighed, shivering in the cool late-night air and watching his breath cloud. Maybe if he focused hard enough, he could pretend he was smoking. Until he fully acclimated to the cold and his breath wasn’t warm enough anymore, at least. If he was lucky it would take just long enough that he could trick his brain into focusing on something other than those thoughts, but―

Ah, no.

It wouldn’t work.

He shuddered, pulling his knees to his chest and looking out over the city as he tried to trap some of his heat between knees and chest. That wouldn’t work either, in the end, but he could try.

Nights like this always seemed to come when it was inconvenient.

Like when it was mid-November in Gotham and, while it hadn’t rained, there hadn’t been a spot of sun in  _ days _ so it was  _ cold as a motherfucker. _ He should have worn a jacket, or brought a blanket, but… Hm. Maybe the cold would chase the thoughts out?

… Unlikely.

He was willing to give it a shot, though.

Still, the thoughts hadn’t been deterred just yet. They were still falling over themselves in his head, vying for his attention, and even if he managed to change the subject he  _ knew _ he’d eventually circle back. Eventually cave and let them run their course even though it would leave him shaking even on a hot night.

They were, again,  _ very familiar. _

Was he willing to fight them? Was he willing to freeze himself, potentially make himself sick, just to delay the inevitable? Just to push them back for a short amount of time?

… No.

Not really.

Not tonight.

He heaved out another sigh, sagging and dropping his head onto his knees.

Unfortunate though it was, the cold and the position really didn’t do anything to distract him, anyway―if anything they were pulling the worst of the thoughts forward again.

Slade’s hideouts in Jump had always been cold.

Not as cold as this, not as windy and unyielding either. But there was always a chill in the air, and not even the long sleeves of his Red X costume had really driven off the chill at all. It wasn’t thick enough. The cold only eased back when he was training or still hot and sweating from a fight, though in the latter case the chill was usually a welcome change as he pried his helmet off and tried to breathe.

Sucking in a breath, now, felt too close to those memories.

But there wasn’t anything to be done about that. He had to just… Let the thoughts run their course.

Immediately, his mind grabbed a memory of his return to one of Slade’s hideouts and traced back to the mission preceding it. And, of course, it grabbed one of the worst ones.

No one would  _ ever _ know the extent of what Slade had taught him to do, had  _ ordered him _ to do. No one would ever find out as long as he could hold it back. As long as he could just keep from saying anything or falling into the trained habits. As long as he could comply with Bruce’s no-killing rule and hang onto his younger self’s no-torture addenum.

No one would ever know but him and Slade.

The memory ran its course, and he felt sick remembering all the blood.

… Except it was never the blood, never the violence, that made his skin crawl and his stomach roll. Never the blood or violence that actually unsettled him, horrible as that was. Never the blood or violence that made him recoil bodily away from the memories.

It was always the feeling of  _ power _ and  _ satisfaction. _

And there it was.

There was the crux of it.

The center of the thoughts plaguing him tonight―working for Slade, and how  _ horrible a person he’d been _ when he was under his employ. How much he’d  _ enjoyed _ what Slade had him do. How hard it was to readjust to not torturing or killing people when he went after them. How much of a struggle it had been and, shamefully, how hard it was to keep telling himself no. How hard it was to just… Not go back to behaving that way.

It had gotten a lot harder after Jason came back, and especially once Jason started being more anti-hero than outright antagonist. Especially once Bruce decided to more or less turn a blind eye to Jason continuing to kill people.

It would be  _ so easy, _ and the desire  _ disgusted him. _

If not for his own hard head and the need for him to set a good example for the younger ones in the ‘family’, he may have tumbled right off the wagon years ago. As it was it just kept him up at night. Just left him tired and low on energy and sometimes physically sick.

He took a deep breath, sitting up straight and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He gave a deep, shuddering sigh, pulled in another breath.

His forearms itched in an all-too-familiar sort of way. Itched for― No.

Not tonight. Not any night.

He’d stopped doing that years ago and he wasn’t starting back up now. Wasn’t picking the box-cutter back up and completely misusing it… Not like he had when he was with Slade. Not like he had after Jason died and the tentative bridges he’d built with Bruce had crumbled into ashes again. Not like he did after Jason came back and he felt like the fact that Jason was a  _ murderer _ and  _ angry at everything _ was entirely  _ his fault  _ for not being around often enough to keep Bruce from ruining him.

He wasn’t falling off the wagon about that, or about the killing thing.

Still, he did have one  _ really stupid _ idea that might work.

It’d worked once in the past, but he wasn’t sure if it would this time, or if it had even actually worked the one time he’d done it before.

Worth a shot, wasn’t it?

And ultimately it was probably better than slipping on his suit and driving to Jump in hopes of finding Red X so he could get into a fight with him.

… Even if fighting with Red X  _ was _ cathartic when he was feeling this way.

He left the roof, heart pounding as he made up his mind, and he’d bet that place was still operating. He’d bet it always would be, really―but the only way to find out was to go, and pray the whole way there that it was still the same dude it had been back then. He yanked on a jacket, yanked on his boots. Shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed his keys. He was still dressed anyway, so he was ready to go as soon as―

Ah, yep, there was his wallet.

He tried to weave mostly through streets his brothers didn’t usually patrol through or around, but that was significantly more difficult when one considered he didn’t really know when or where Jason typically patrolled. He kept his head down and his hood up as, cursing, he noticed Jason and Roy coming out of an alleyway. Hopefully neither of them had seen him, or at least hadn’t realized who he was.

He hit the highway at a much higher speed than he should have, throwing concerned glances over his shoulder but seeing no one for the majority of the drive to Jump.

He arrived at the old, shady tattoo parlour at ten-til-five in the morning, and the lights, as he expected, were still on inside. It had been around this time in the morning the first time he’d come here, too. But he’d had Slade, that time, to give his permission for this to happen. This time it was all him.

He walked in, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was going to do, but being here at all had already made him feel just that little bit better that even the drive here and the hour-and-then-some it had taken hadn’t managed to accomplish. The bell above the door jingled to announce his presence, and before he even got a chance to look at any of the flash art, who else but the same man who had been here last time emerged from the back.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Said the guy, in his gruff voice, eyes crinkling at the edges in amusement, “Dick Grayson. Didn’t think I’d see you ‘round here again after last time.”

Dick managed to bark a half-bitter laugh, lips quirking up, “I wasn’t planning on coming back. But you know how that goes…”

The guy just nodded, “No ideas this time, either?” He asked, quirking a brow, “And ya want it done this mornin’.”

“Maybe I’m too predictable,” He snorted in response, “But yeah. Although I’ve got an idea cooking up, this time.”

The guy motioned for him to come into the back.

Dick had been aware the  _ first time _ that this wasn’t how this usually went. Usually you needed an appointment, he was pretty sure. But this was the shitty part of Jump City and this guy wasn’t in the business to ask questions―he was in the business to make money tatting up anyone who came in wanting one. Even fifteen year olds with foul mouths and no permission from their actual legal guardian, just that of fukcing  _ Deathstroke. _

He drew up a preliminary sketch of the idea Dick had, and after a few minor adjustments he was drawing up the stencil.

“Aight, where ya wanting it?” The guy asked, quirking his brows.

“... You can tattoo over scars, right?” Dick quirked his brows in response, “... Like self-harm scars.”

“Sure, depending on how old.” He shrugged and, as was his policy, didn’t ask any questions.

“Few years. Just tired of looking at them all the time,” Dick joked, shrugging off his jacket and shoving up his sleeve to show the guy his forearm. Most of the scars were thin and silvery but it was so rarely that he looked at him that to him they almost still felt fresh. Like he’d just gotten done cutting his wrists two days ago instead of almost half a decade ago. “But there’s a lot of ‘em.”

The guy scanned his arm. “Ya sure you want it there? Sensitive area.”

“I’ll live.”

With a shrug, the guy had him pull his shirt off so he wouldn’t be sitting there with his sleeve rolled up for the next couple hours and applied the stencil to the inside of his left forearm.

And Dick sat there and let him do his thing.

His brain checked him out of the experience about halfway through, although that didn’t at all stop him from feeling the pain of the tattoo, and he wouldn’t have wanted it to. Half the distraction was in the pain. The other half was in the disappearance of some of his least favorite features.

Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t mind scars.

He just hated these ones in particular, and on nights like this when he really wanted to give himself a few more… Well. Covering them up helped a little, he was sure, as did doing it like this.

Just removing them from the equation entirely.

And when he was done he had a slightly enflamed but overall very satisfying new tattoo. The guy talked him through taking care of it, gave him some lotion and bandages, and sent him on his way after he’d swiped a credit card at random to pay for the whole ordeal. He didn’t care which one he’d used―he could pay it off. It would be fine. For now, he ought to go home and get some sleep, if at all possible.

He had work to do tonight.

So he set off in the early morning light back toward Gotham.

* * *

Four months after his new tattoo, he found his whole world turned sharply on its head. His vision was fuzzy, hearing dampened and distorted. He felt off-balance. Dizzy. Sick.

"Dick?" That was Tim, he  _ knew _ that was Tim.

He forced himself to get a grip, shaking himself out mentally. Turned his eyes toward the clearly anxious teen and tried to ignore the way Damian and Jason and Bruce were  _ staring. _

"Sorry, what?" He said, like nothing was wrong.

Like the last thing he'd heard Bruce say hadn't pretty much slam-dunked him into some kind of minor dissociative  _ fit. _ Like he wasn't fighting off a feeling of panic even as he spoke. Like he wasn't keeping all of today's meals down through force of will alone.

"... I asked if you were feeling alright," Tim said, brows furrowing further, eyes wide and genuinely concerned and Dick knew he'd be seen through if he tried to lie his way out of this by saying he was fine.

Didn't mean he wouldn't lie anyway.

Just meant he'd make it convincing.

"Oh, yeah." He said, waving a hand, "Just had to process for a second, don't worry about it." He turned his attention back to a frowning and unconvinced Bruce, "Run that by me again, B? Just so I know we're on the same page?"

And Bruce hesitated for a moment, almost as if he thought this would turn into a fight. It wouldn't. Dick knew that, but he guessed Bruce couldn't be expected to. After all, this wasn't a frequent enough topic of discussion for Bruce to know how he'd react. It was just Dick, alone in knowing the worst case scenario was him bursting into hysterical tears and dissociating for the rest of the night.

"I need someone to check in with Deathstroke about this," Bruce finally said, "See what he knows and maybe take him down in the process."

"And you're planning to send who, exactly?" Dick asked, thankful that this time he'd managed not to start panicking.

"Damian seems the best fit―"

_ "Absolutely not."  _ Dick said immediately, maybe too harshly.

Damian looked a little shaken and even Bruce seemed taken aback.

Dick swiftly tried to save face, make a good case for himself. "B, you know he's different these days. What reason do you have to believe he wouldn't kill Dames  _ on sight? _ He's not going to trust a Robin."

He pushed away the voice saying he trusted  _ one _ Robin. The first Robin. The Robin who mattered to him.

"Then Jas―"

"He won't trust Red Hood, either," Dick said, exasperated, "Or you, before you suggest it. He'd definitely kill you."

There was a silence, even the other vigilantes in the Cave who weren't involved having gone oddly quiet. He felt all their eyes on him. He wanted to die. Why had he― Oh, yeah. For Damian.

Worth it to keep Damian safe.

"You seem to know very much about who he will and will not trust." Damian piped up, "Why do you not make a suggestion as to who might live through this plan?"

Dick didn't manage to suppress the wince he gave in response to the question, looking briefly around at all the eyes on him. He settled on Bruce. Chose not to deny his knowledge or contest that he might have an idea of who wouldn't get sliced in half by a distrustful Slade.

"First let's see what the rest of the plan is. B?"

And B explained that there was a large group of low-level mercenaries and crooks meeting up at such-and-such location down by the docks to be recruited by Slade, and he'd hoped to sneak whoever he was sending in with that group. Damian was angry enough to pass for having defected from Bruce, and Jason was well-known for what he did and why, but the point he'd already made still stood―Slade would kill Damian on sight and at least make a decent effort to kill Jason.

"Any suggestions?" Bruce asked, studying his frown.

"I can only think of two people here that wouldn't get killed executing that plan." He said, as calmly as he could, "And since he'd still at least  _ try _ to kill Jason that leaves me with only one."

"Who is…?" Tim prompted, brows lifting.

Dick hesitated. Shrugged and tried for nonchalance as he said, "He likes me."

At once, the room seemed to erupt with complaints―most loudly from Tim and Damian.

Jason and Bruce stayed oddly silent.

Dick ignored that even  _ Roy _ was among the people contesting him going to do it. Ignored that there were any complaints at all and kept his eyes on Bruce.

"You're certain?" Bruce asked, when the Cave had quieted once more, "You're  _ certain _ he won't attack or try to kill you?"

Dick smiled and knew it came out more grim than reassuring. Pushed his panic and nausea back again. "I'm sure, B. He likes me."

"Very well," Bruce said, to everyone's clear and loud displeasure. Under the din of even  _ Jason _ protesting, Bruce said, "They're meeting tonight at three. I trust you'll be on time."

Dick nodded and was out of the Cave as quickly as possible, dodging any questions or further protests that were thrown his way and speeding off on his bike. He’d need to get ready for this. He’d need a moment to panic about this. He’d need to not go as Nightwing.

So he went, and he got himself ready―pulled on a hoodie and some jeans and a pair of  _ regular _ shoes. Pulled his hood up over his head to obscure his face. Tried to give himself a second to panic, but it was nearly two already and he knew it would take at least half an hour to get to the meeting place if he drove like a normal person. And he’d have to. To keep the cops off of him.

Knowing he’d panic for the next several hours if he let it hit him now, he pushed it as far down as he could. Far enough that it dragged most other things with it. Anger, discomfort, his nausea. He was glad to feel it all go.

He could panic later.

He’d have to.

He got back on his bike and he  _ went. _

Bruce had been wrong about one thing, during his very brief explanation of his plan.

The mercenaries and thugs meeting up were not being recruited by Slade.

The vast majority of them were being  _ killed. _

After Dick had arrived, some cronie or another of Slade’s had grabbed him and most of the thugs and tied them up. With rope, only their hands, and he could have gotten out if he needed to. Had them line up and kneel to wait for Slade and his judgement. The cronies attending explained it was up to Slade who lived and who died, and the ones currently left standing were ones he had already given a pass to.

And as soon as Slade arrived, the cronies and the new hired guns promptly left.

Dick knelt there, knowing that he was being surveilled from afar by either one of his brothers or by Bruce, and kept his breathing even. Kept his head down as Slade walked the line of recruits. Tried not to flinch at the repeated wet slicing sounds. Pushed his disgust and panic back down when they bubbled to the surface and  _ waited. _

Slade wouldn’t kill him.

He  _ knew _ that.

But the people dying around him still made his stomach churn, a little. And when it didn’t churn from disgust at the thought of their deaths, it churned a moment afterwards in disgust at  _ himself _ for getting any satisfaction out of people who were probably just trying to live being cut down by Slade.

Even tied up and kneeling, waiting for his turn to be examined by Slade, he couldn’t quite help the feeling of  _ power _ that sparked up and down his spine at knowing he was the only one who would make it out of this alive. Slade wouldn’t choose any of the others. They were weak. Several were crying by now.

Not Dick.

And he was disgusted with himself, but there was very little that he could do.

Finally, with a wet splatter against his left side and footsteps coming to a stop in front of him, he knew Slade had reached him. The tip of the blade, still wet, still dripping, nudged up under his chin.

He opened his eyes. Raised his head.

And even wearing a mask that totally obscured his face, he could feel Slade smiling.

“Hello, little Robin.” He said, sounding incredibly pleased, “I knew you would come back eventually.”

With a huff of a laugh from the man and a churning in Dick’s gut in response, he withdrew his other sword and planted it firmly behind Dick. Between his tied hands and his back. Dick didn’t even have to suppress a flinch―he wasn’t scared. He knew Slade wouldn’t kill him.

“You could have called,” Slade said, so casually, “It would have been easier for you.”

Against his will, it made a smile pull at the edges of Dick’s lips.

It pulled another laugh out of Slade, and he continued on his way.

Dick took a breath.

Resigned himself to his fate.

For the foreseeable future, until he got the information that Bruce needed, he was Slade’s apprentice again. He was a murderer again. He was a monster in human clothing and there was a very real chance that he wouldn’t want to stop once he’d started again. And that was a risk he had to take, a risk he was  _ willing _ to take, because…

God.

He’d been right to think Damian would have died and Jason would have  _ nearly _ died again.

Better that he submit himself to this, let himself be a monster again, than lose either one of them. Even if he wasn’t close with Jason, even if Talia would  _ rush _ to revive her son in the Pit, even if he could have honestly just  _ called _ Slade and politely asked for the information if he so desired, this… This was the best course of action. This way Bruce could feel like his plan had worked out without Dick going behind his back, and his brothers were safe. This way, Slade didn’t feel like Dick owed him a favor in exchange for the information. This way, Dick wasn’t locked in a nearly endless cycle of payment and repayment between he and Slade.

When he decided to defect again, when he had all the information he needed… He could leave and Slade wouldn’t argue. He would tell him there was always room for him and he’d never even have to know Dick had used him for intel.

… Well, maybe it was better to say “if” he defected again, but… He probably ought to think positive.

Another deep breath.

He shifted and tugged his hands toward his back.

The blade sliced through the ropes like nothing and didn’t even touch either of his hands or wrists. He shifted up onto his feet, lifted the sword from the wood of the dock. Tried not to look down the length of the dock and see the bodies clumsily kicked toward the water. Turned toward Slade and took the surest steps he could through the gore and blood toward the man, offering his blade back to him there at the very end of the line.

Slade accepted it with a chuckle, putting an arm around his shoulders as he led him off toward a waiting, idling car.

“You’ve missed a lot, my little Robin.” Slade said, “But I’m very glad that you’re back, for however long it may last. I could use someone competent.”

“I’m sure,” Dick found himself snarking with a derisive snort, shooting the last remaining cronie an unimpressed look. “Looks like your army’s a little weak at the moment.”

Somehow he could tell that Slade had quirked his brows.

They slid into the car.

“So why did you approach it this way, little Robin?” Slade asked, sounding genuinely curious, “You know I always have a place for you.”

Dick wrinkled his nose in response, and it was only partially an act. “Needed it to look like you took me instead of me coming along willingly,” He lied, “B’d come after me if he thought I was turning traitor, but if it looks like you snagged me he’ll just leave me to my own devices since he trusts me to get out alive, y’know?”

Slade made a noise of understanding. “Needed a break from the old man, hm?”

Again, against his will, his lips curved up. “Something like that.”

“Happy to provide,” Slade said, then, “Are you hungry?”

And even though his stomach rolled in response to how  _ not _ disgusted he was right now, looking at a blood-splattered Slade and knowing he was only spared because Slade  _ liked him, _ Slade  _ wanted him around, _ he wasn’t lying when he shrugged and said, “I could eat.”

* * *

Watching Dick first  _ take _ the mission to go infiltrate Deathstroke, then  _ actually go to do _ said mission had been… Something else.

Watching him take the mission had been bad enough―it had felt wrong, seeing as at the  _ barest _ mention of Deathstroke Dick had gone very still and he’d stared through the table in a way Jason knew from his own experiences and from seeing it happen to Roy a few times meant he had mentally checked out of the situation and not entirely on purpose. And then, somehow, he’d still ended up taking the mission. Still managed to look unruffled even though he’d  _ dissociated _ at hearing Deathstroke’s name. But he’d fled with a lot of swiftness after Bruce had agreed to send him, not even sticking around long enough for Bruce to actually call some order into the Cave.

He’d sent Jason and Roy to watch and make sure Dick didn’t end up getting hurt, and Jason had sort of jumped on it a little harder than he would have normally.

He wasn’t…  _ Close… _ With Dick by any means. He’d usually leave him to his own devices and let him do his thing, because he’d proved a long time ago that even if he acted stupid sometimes he was fully capable and seemed to get a real kick out of people underestimating him when he wasn’t insulted by it. Dick was the first Robin. Short of Bruce, he’d been doing this the longest of all of them. He knew what he was doing.

But that reaction…

He’d looked like he was about to start having  _ flashbacks _ or something, and when he placed that alongside the fact that Dick seemed  _ unshakably _ certain that Deathstroke liked him and wouldn’t kill him? He wasn’t liking the picture he was starting to see.

So he and Roy had gone, and they’d set up to watch.

Saw Dick arrive, in a hoodie with his shoulders hunched up.

Saw him get tied up with many of the others.

Watched, horrified but sickly curious about how this would turn out, when Deathstroke arrived and went down the line of recruits cutting them down.

Watched Deathstroke come to a stop in front of Dick. Watched the slow and deliberate movement that placed the very tip of the flat of his blade under Dick’s chin, and watched Dick look up at him. Even from this distance they’d been able to see that Dick wasn’t afraid―not even remotely. Watched Slade plant his clean blade behind Dick, between his bound hands and his back, close enough to have been a threat… But Dick didn’t flinch. And they watched him  _ smile _ at something, probably something Deathstroke had said.

And they watched Deathstroke continue on down the line.

Watched Dick take a couple of deep, slow breaths.

Cut the ropes off with the sword at his back, stand up. Take the blade.

Walk through the gore without even really picking his way around it. Only avoid the very worst of it.

Hand the blade back to Deathstroke.

Go, Deathstroke’s hand on his back, to the car Deathstroke had waiting for him. Get in.

And Jason wanted to follow, but he was stuck to the spot by…  _ Something. _ He wasn’t sure what it was. Understanding, maybe, of why Dick had seemed so familiar with who Deathstroke would kill and why? Or maybe dread and suspicion.

“Nightwing is safely on the move with Deathstroke,” He reported to Bruce, regardless, having already reported the whole  _ line of dead people  _ thing, “Should we follow?”

_ “No,” _ Bruce replied, after a brief moment,  _ “Dick will report in when he has the chance. If he survived that part, Deathstroke is unlikely to kill him. More likely he’s recruited him, as we’d hoped.” _

“... They seemed  _ awful _ friendly, B.”

_ “I wouldn’t be surprised.” _ And the resignation in Bruce’s voice made it worse,  _ “There’s a lot of his life I know nothing about… Although Deathstroke was primarily stationed in Jump City when he was off running the Teen Titans. I’d imagine they got to know each other very well at that point.” _

That would make sense.

Still.

He didn’t like it.

He felt… Something about this felt wrong.

If they were enemies, why wouldn’t Deathstroke just kill him outright?

It didn’t sit right with him.

Still, Bruce made a decent enough point.

Dick could handle himself. He’d report in, eventually.

* * *

Dick ended up in the spare bedroom of one of Slade’s safehouses, given a brief and nearly concerned eyeing before he was left alone―he knew as well as Slade did why that was. He knew why Slade gave him privacy but was…  _ Concerned _ about doing so.

But he had nothing sharp on his person and he had no intentions of falling back into  _ those _ bad habits as long as he was able to avoid it.

Instead he shrugged off his hoodie and sat down on the bed and ran a thumb over his new tattoo. It seemed ironic, really, that he’d gotten this one in particular so soon before going to work for Slade again.

Red X’s mask stared up at him from the inside of his left arm, overlaid on a pair of crossed blades and a cloud of spattered blood.

But he wouldn’t be Red X, this time―it was far more likely he would just be Dick.

It made his stomach churn to think about that.

To think about how he wouldn’t have that extra degree of separation from his actions this time. How he was almost definitely going to leave this in a worse state than he’d left the last time, because there was no convenient escape from his actions.

In both cases he’d  _ chosen _ to go to Slade, but the first time he’d been intent on taking him down and had been forced to work with him for the sake of his friends and had had to fight  _ hard _ against himself in order to feel like he could leave at all. He’d been able to find some solace in the fact he’d had no choice, that Slade would have killed his friends if he disobeyed so  _ of course _ he did as he asked. Of course he became a killer when his friends were on the line. He’d have killed Slade if he could, he was sure, but Slade had been careful up until the very end to show no weakness and by that point Dick hadn’t had it in him to kill anyone else anyway.

When he left that time, he’d been able to take the Red X suit and put it away and it had been… Symbolic. He was putting that  _ part _ of him away. And he’d been able to separate  _ Dick Grayson _ from  _ Red X _ as long as he was able to remind himself he had no choice in the matter.

He would not have that this time, and considering all the ‘good’ it had done him to have that  _ last time, _ he wasn’t optimistic about the results this time.

He stroked his thumb over the shape of the mask, the cut of the X symbol on the forehead, the line of one blade, then the other. He hadn’t brought any of the things he needed in order to continue properly caring for it, foolishly. But then again, Slade wouldn’t keep him trapped here. Not this time. Not when he’d come willingly.

He’d let him go and collect any personal affects after they’d worked out what he’d be doing and what was expected of him. He could report to Bruce then―Slade would be using  _ something _ to disrupt his phone this early on, so he couldn’t do it  _ now. _ It’d be too convenient, even from his favorite little Robin, for him to be using his phone to send messages or call someone so early.

He could do it from the privacy of his un-bugged apartment in a day or so he was sure.

For now, though, he knew Slade was giving him privacy and time to settle in and do whatever needed to be done. Even if that meant allowing him to hurt himself―for all Slade knew, he always did that. For all he knew, it wasn’t just a “when working for him” thing.

So instead of doing what was likely expected of him given the last time he had worked for Slade, he sat on the bed tracing his tattoo and trying to keep his breathing even. When the breathing thing failed, he took the deepest breath he could, laid down, turned his face into the pillow, and let himself break down. Let himself shake and sob and breathe like he’d just run a marathon.

* * *

Settling into a safehouse in the morning with Roy tucked up against his side, as usual, Jason still felt unsettled.

“... Not sleeping, Jay?” Roy asked, and they’d been laying there for about twenty minutes and Jason just  _ couldn’t _ relax because he kept thinking about how Dick had responded to Deathstroke’s name being spoken and to  _ seeing _ Deathstroke, and, “What’s got you all wound up?”

Jason forced his thoughts to grind to a slow halt. Took a breath. Closed his eyes and tried to relax, because laying here so tense it kept Roy from getting some sleep wouldn’t help either of them.

“Kinda freaked out, honestly,” He managed to grunt, finally, and Roy hummed against his shoulder.

“‘Bout the golden boy?” He asked, shifting to look at Jason’s face with tired eyes.

Jason felt bad for keeping him awake, but he knew Roy wouldn’t fall asleep until he at least  _ seemed _ calm anyway. Never did. Never could. So he met his exhausted gaze, shifting to nose against his forehead after a moment even as he sighed.

“Yeah. About him.”

Roy hummed again, nosing against his chin in response to his own gentle nuzzle. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and Jason―foolishly―thought that maybe he’d decided Jason would be fine and had managed to fall asleep.

“Was kinda weird,” Was what Roy mumbled, after a long moment. “Known him a long time, never seen him act like that.”

“Didja see his face when B brought Deathstroke up?”

“Mm-mm.”

“He looked like he checked out  _ instantly.” _ Jason told him, shifting to tangle their legs together and pull Roy a little closer―for his own comfort or for Roy’s, he wasn’t sure. He knew Roy had been a good friend of Dick’s, once, “Got that distant look like he got sucked right into his own head.”

“Like you get, sometimes?”

“Mm.” He tucked his head against Roy’s, “And considering how he responded to  _ seeing _ the guy…”

Roy hummed his agreement. “Something fucky happened with those two,” He surmised, “But nothin’ we can do about it. D’s a smart guy, he’ll figure things out. He’ll dip if he needs to.”

Jason doubted that.

But it was the closest thing to a comfort that he was going to get on this.

So he hummed again.

Roy tucked up closer to him, nuzzling into his neck and gently squeezing one of his legs between his thighs. Squeezed an arm around his stomach, too. And Jason could feel his lashes brushing against his neck, breath ghosting over his throat, and even though he was still unsettled, it got him to relax a little. He wasn’t in an immediate danger, Roy was here, and the sun would be rising soon.

“Get some sleep, Jaybird,” Roy mumbled, pressing a kiss to his jugular, “Can check in when we get up.”

Jason blew out a slow breath, but couldn’t help the way he relaxed at the order and the kiss. He let his eyes fall closed as he mumbled some kind of affirmative.

“Love you,” Roy smiled against his neck.

His own lips quirked up. “Mm… You too.”

And even though he was still unsettled and unsure, he fell asleep within moments.

* * *

Dick’s head was pounding when he woke, and the unfamiliar surroundings nearly put him right into fight or flight but… The night before flooded back, and if he hadn’t already cried himself out he probably would have teared up. He laid there a moment, turning his head toward the door and slowly stretching out. He could hear someone walking around outside the room, and he knew he had to face this eventually.

Sighing, he sat up.

Spent a few moments stretching and trying to center himself before, finally, pulling his hoodie back on beforehand, he headed out into the hallway of the safehouse.

He remembered this one―he’d used it before, even when he wasn’t working for Slade, because there had been occasions where it was a lot closer than either of his apartments or any of his other safehouses, or it was the least compromised location because it was  _ Slade’s _ safehouse and very few people would know it was there, so even when his own safehouses were dangerous to go to...

Yeah.

He found Slade in the kitchen, and the sun was high enough in the sky that he knew it must be late morning or early afternoon. Slade had clearly thought he needed his rest if he hadn’t woken him up before now… Regardless, he spent a moment lingering in the doorway, watching the unmasked man make his way around the room. Seemed to be making coffee.

“Morning.” He managed to say, and Slade jumped slightly.

Turned to him.

Smiled.

“Ah, good morning little Robin.” He greeted in reply, “You’re certainly still in practice, aren’t you?” His eyes roved over him, briefly, “... You seemed distraught last night. Should I be preparing for a fight?”

Dick felt himself flush. “No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He said, pushing off the doorframe and entering the kitchen at last, “It’s just been a rough couple of weeks.”

It wasn’t a lie, not completely, but he had no intention of expanding on what he meant by ‘rough’.

Slade hummed, but let the subject drop. Handed him a cup of coffee  _ exactly the way he usually drank it, _ had him help him make breakfast even though it was later than when either of them would usually be eating their first meal of the day.

And what Dick hated most about it wasn’t that Slade still remembered, ten years on, how he liked his coffee, nor was it that Slade made him help. It was that he felt  _ comfortable. _ It was that he and Slade moved around each other like they’d been working together for  _ years. _ It was that there was a silent understanding between the two of them of what each movement meant, what each grunt translated to, that even he and Bruce didn’t have.

It had always been like that, with Slade.

They worked entirely too well together.

And it always fucked Dick up to think about too much.

But regardless, they made breakfast, and they ate together, and then Slade broached the subject of him working with him again.

“I suppose,” He said, carefully, “We’ll need to establish boundaries. You’re hardly my apprentice at this stage―more like a lieutenant. You’ve certainly more say now than you had then.”

Oh, and he also hated  _ that, _ by the way.

That even Slade, damn near obsessed with him doing as he asked though he’d been ten years ago,  _ acknowledged that he was an adult now. _ That he was a  _ different person now. _ That, as an adult and a well-trained vigilante, he couldn’t just order Dick around anymore. He had to expect some pushback. And he especially had to expect some since Dick was working for him  _ willingly. _

Bruce had never really learned to make that distinction.

“That’s a fair point,” He chose to reply, out loud, “I guess the easiest way for me to say this is that I won’t kill kids and I’m not touching my brothers.”

He laid down the boundary like it was law, and Slade nodded his agreement without a moment’s hesitation. “A reasonable boundary.” He said, “Any others?”

He thought about it. Chewed the inside of his cheek. Did he have any other hard boundaries?

… Putting aside his hesitance to kill anyone for fear he wouldn’t come back from it, he was a little disgusted to find the answer was no. And killing people was pretty much an inevitability with Slade, so he couldn’t lay that down even if he wasn’t sort of sickeningly okay with it. All he could do was set a soft one, where that was concerned.

“I’d prefer not to kill anyone if I don’t have to,” He admitted, “But that one is… Flexible.”

It got Slade to crack a smile. “Of course,” He agreed, again with no hesitation, “It will vary on a case-by-case basis, I’m aware. I’ll leave it to your discretion, generally.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Now,” Slade said, “Let’s see if you’re still as efficient as you were last time.”

Two days passed in the blink of an eye, and Slade was satisfied with Dick’s ability to kill if necessary, and his efficiency otherwise. He left him to his own devices, heading to his main base of operations and leaving Dick a set of directions to reach him when he was ready to truly begin working for him. There was no rush. No set date or time he needed to arrive by. Slade trusted that he would arrive one way or another when he was ready to do so.

Dick headed straight to his apartment in Gotham and collected most of his personal affects from the premises before moving on toward his apartment in Bludhaven. And when he’d arrived there he sat down on his bed and considered staying here for a day or so. Slade wouldn’t say a word, but…

No, too high a chance he wouldn’t go.

And too high a chance that someone would come to check up on him.

He called Bruce.

_ “Dick?” _

“Hey, B.” He said, trying not to sound too beleaguered, “No information yet, but checking in to let you know I got in. Going to be heading to the main center of operations soon, should be checking back in as soon as I have more information.”

He kept his voice clinical and detached, leaving no room for any emotion to creep in. No room for Bruce to ask if he was okay.

_ “Good, good,” _ Bruce said,  _ “Stay safe.” _

“Will do.”

And as soon as he’d hung up, he grabbed the last remaining things he needed and he headed for Slade’s main base.

He didn’t feel like he existed.

If that made any sense.

He sat on the edge of his tub, staring through the tile floor― _ through, _ because he definitely wasn’t staring  _ at _ it―and only dimly aware of the blood dripping from his fingers. He wasn’t sure if his vision was blurry, because he wasn’t sure he could even see. He wasn’t processing any visual stimuli. He knew his gaze was aimed at the floor but he couldn’t see it now. He couldn’t hear anything, either, not really. Just a distant, muffled drip, drip, drip, drip… He wasn’t even breathing hard anymore.

His mind lined up the pieces for him as he started to wonder why he was doing this and what had led to it.

He’d known that actually killing someone wouldn’t turn out well. He’d known he was going to go through  _ some kind of episode _ over it.

He barely remembered anything after lunging for the person Slade had sent him after. They’d infiltrated the facility and Slade had tossed him one of his blades and told him to “take care of them” and he’d gone for it. He remembered the first slash of the blade and the spray of blood as he kept at it like a hound. And then nothing.

Nothing until he was here.

“Little Robin?” He heard Slade’s voice from outside the bathroom.

He sucked in a breath.

“Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and Dick tried to blink himself back into the present. He lifted his head. His vision swam as Slade stepped into the room, wavering.

“You did a very good job,” Slade said, calmly, approaching and hooking a finger under his chin to make sure he met his eye. “But if you’re going to do this every time it may not be worth it.”

“... Do what?” Dick asked, because he was genuinely unsure what he’d done.

Slade frowned, humming. “You don’t recall coming in here?”

“... No. I remember going for my target but…”

Slade’s frown deepened, and Dick felt weak at the knees. It was good he was sitting. Slade seemed disappointed. He didn’t want that. He’d done a good job, right? Wasn’t that all that mattered?

“Little Robin, did you come back to me for a reason?”

And he had, and he knew he had, but he couldn’t quite remember what that reason had been. Was it a job? Was he fighting with Bruce again? Everything was fuzzy, but he… He needed to answer. Slade wanted an answer and Slade got what he wanted. He had to say something.

“It’s hard,” He croaked, eventually, and that was the truth, “Not killing people.”

Slade’s face softened, frown smoothing away. He stroked his thumb over Dick’s chin and Dick vaguely registered that the motion smeared something wet across his skin. A soft noise like a croon left Slade’s throat.

“You’ve been holding back for too long,” He said, sympathetically,  _ understandingly _ , “That’s what this was about.”

“What did I…?”

“Oh, you took them  _ apart, _ little Robin.” He smiled, “You did wonderfully, even if it was messier than I’d have liked. There’s almost nothing left of them, and no chance they survived to take the information they got back to their boss.”

Part of him―the reasonable part, he imagined―recoiled at the words. But the part of him in control at the moment, the part that was unsteady and fuzzy in the head and leaning too eagerly into the touch of Slade’s hand on his face, relaxed. His lips pulled into a smile. He’d done well. He’d done  _ wonderfully, _ even. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

And it wasn’t until Slade had managed to get him to strip out of his bloodstained clothes and take a shower―and thankfully Slade had only stuck around long enough to collect his clothes and take them to be disposed of―that his brain started to catch up with him.

With half-dried blood flaking away under warm water and legs already somewhat shaky, reality crashed back into him. He’d killed someone. He’d  _ taken them apart. _ And he didn’t even remember, really, but he knew very well that the memory would return sooner or later, and it was going to make him  _ sick. _ If not from the act, then from the power and satisfaction he knew he had to have felt taking them apart.

Reality crashed into him, and he sank to his knees in the shower. Suppressed a sob and tried to scrub the blood away before he succumbed to some kind of panic attack.

Yanked the knobs on the shower and turned it very,  _ very  _ cold.

Sat on the floor of the shower and cried for a while.

Carefully extracted himself when he’d calmed down, dried off. Emerged into his room and got dressed again. Went out to meet back up with Slade. Ate dinner. Went to his room. Laid down.

Laid there and let the memory of what he’d done crash into him when it inevitably saw fit right before he got comfortable enough to fall asleep.

“Anything you want, little Robin.” Slade said, a soft promise in response to Dick, months into working for him, asking if he could do something for him.

He swallowed, blinked and looked at him. Took a breath.

“... Find the new Red X for me?”

“Of course.”

And Slade didn’t question the request at all. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t even ask where this had come from or what Dick would do in exchange. And Dick knew that that was because Dick had proven to be such a valuable asset to him that he pretty much had him wrapped around his little finger. He’d have the information that Bruce wanted, soon, but the last time he’d checked in Bruce had informed him that there was something else he needed updates on as well. Which meant he was stuck here longer.

That was a month ago, though.

It had been four since he joined Slade again.

He’d known from the outset this wouldn’t be as simple as grabbing the information and running―he’d spent the first month on a sort of probation, trusted to do what he was asked but still being watched. The last three since then he’d been left mostly to his own devices, fully trusted, unwatched, unbothered. Sent on missions and trusted to come back when instructed.

He’d gotten so used to killing in just that short time that he was now  _ sure _ he wouldn’t be able to adjust back to not being a killer.

… He  _ wasn’t  _ sure what he was going to do with Red X once Slade brought him, but he knew he wanted someone here with him. Someone who wasn’t Slade. Someone closer to his age. Someone else he had an odd kinship with but felt far more comfortable having that kinship with than he did with Slade.

And Dick was working on getting Bruce’s information while also working on something for Slade when he came back with an unconscious, but breathing, Red X. The thief was bound, head lolling against his chest, but he seemed ultimately no worse for the wear. Completely fine.

“He’s unharmed,” Slade promised. “I’ll leave him to you. Have you finished with your mission?”

“I’ve just finished uploading the information I gathered.” Dick confirmed.

Slade nodded, satisfied, and motioned for Dick to take Red X and go.

He did.

Five minutes later, in his quarters (not his  _ room, _ his  _ quarters, _ which were  _ outside of and included his room _ and were basically a fucking  _ fully furnished apartment), _ Red X woke with a start. He was sitting against the side of Dick’s couch and Dick was staring him down from where he sat in an armchair. No domino, no helmet. Not Nightwing or Red X or anything else but Dick Grayson.

“What the  _ fuck,” _ Red X went rigid, instantly, before starting to fight, and Dick pushed down the satisfaction he felt at that, “Who―”

“You’re not scared of me  _ in _ costume, X, so don’t start now.” Dick sighed, and X stilled.

Went completely still.

“... Wing?”

He nodded.

“... Where the hell am I?”

“Sl―  _ Deathstroke’s _ main base of operations.”

_ “Why?!” _

“I asked him to find you for me.”

“... I’ll ask again,  _ why?” _

Dick shrugged. “Guess I was lonely.”

There was a silence. Dick slowly got up and walked over to him, and Red X remained totally still. Dick knelt in front of him, reaching for the release clasp he knew the helmet had. X winced away from the motion, crowding himself up against the couch. Dick withdrew his hands instantly.

“You’ve seen my face,” He sighed, regardless, “Let me see yours?”

“Untie me first.” Was X’s eventual reply.

And since Dick was a murderer, but he wasn’t a kidnapper and he didn’t want X  _ trapped _ here, he sat forward again and untied him. X almost seemed surprised.

But then, untied and free to get up and run if he so chose, he hesitated for a long moment. And then, slowly, he reached up and released the clasp, drawing the helmet up off of his head and into his lap.

Dick felt his heart thump in his chest.

X was cute.

He had deep brown eyes and shaggy, mussed red hair. There was a small scar running through one of his eyebrows, splitting it almost down the middle, and another touching the very edge of the left side of his mouth. And his face was unsure, distrustful, but Dick wouldn’t have expected otherwise. He had a firm chin and strong cheekbones and  _ long _ eyelashes.

Dick’s breath felt a little caught in his throat, really.

He couldn’t peel his eyes away.

And, sure, Wally and Roy―they were cute, too, objectively in very similar ways to X. And, in fact, they both also had very similar personalities to X. But he’d never really felt for them the same thing he felt for X right now, in this moment. He wasn’t sure if it was lust, or a crush, or what it could be otherwise, but it was  _ something _ and it was  _ strong, _ and it was  _ not platonic. _

As the moments ticked by and he stared at X, X slowly gave up on watching his face and looking for exits and began sweeping his eyes over him as well.

Dick took a breath.

“... I have some spare clothes,” He managed, “If you want to change out of that suit. They should fit, even if the pants are a little short.”

Because, yeah. X was taller than he was now, and broader. Dick’s shirts would stretch  _ very _ pretty across his chest and his pants would probably squeeze his legs, and…

Yeah, okay.

This was probably lust.

“Sure,” X said, and slowly got up.

Dick followed suit and led him to his bedroom.

“What’s your name?” X blurted, as he was stepping into the bathroom to change.

His cheeks turned red instantly, and Dick felt… Attracted. Very attracted. He looked good with a flush on his cheeks.

“Dick Grayson.” He said, “And yours?”

X hesitated, still red. “... Luke,” He admitted, “Luke Knight.”

And he slipped into the bathroom and emerged in a pair of Dick’s sweats and one of his tanktops, and Dick… Wanted.

He wasn’t surprised when he and Luke ended up falling into his bed less than an hour later without having done a whole lot of talking in the meantime. He wasn’t surprised that Luke was the one who pinned  _ him. _ Wasn’t surprised by any of it, really, except for how tender Luke was about it. How gentle.

And how much someone being gentle with him made him want to fall apart at the seams.

Month five rolled in, and with Luke around he was slightly less shaky. Luke agreed to work with him and Slade without much fanfare, and Slade gave in far too easily to Dick saying Luke was  _ his. _ Didn’t question what he meant and didn’t even begin to imply Luke wasn’t allowed to assist him.

He had Slade wrapped around his little finger as much as Slade had him wrapped around his.

And he had the first bit of information Bruce needed, now, and had Luke stand guard while he reported in.

“I’ll be dropping a drive with the information at my apartment in Gotham,” He said, “I’m still working on the other bit.”

_ “Good work.” _ Bruce said, unruffled,  _ “But Dick… Are you alright?” _

Dick stiffened, throwing a glance toward Luke, who was frowning. They were both in plain clothes and they’d be heading for his apartment soon. Hopefully no one would question who he was―but he didn’t seem to have heard Bruce’s question, and Dick wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

He hated being asked that, really.

“I’m fine,” He said, “Why?”

_ “I know working for Slade involves a lot of death.” _ Bruce said, simply,  _ “I wanted to make sure you were… Handling it alright.” _

Dick wetted his lips with his tongue, shifting uncomfortably and glad Bruce couldn’t see him. “It takes getting used do,” He finally said, “But yeah. I’m fine.”

Bruce asked no further questions.

Dick hung up.

He and Luke headed for his apartment.

Luke held his hand while he dropped the drive and kept holding his hand until they were back in a safehouse for the night, out of the way of any of his family. He squeezed Luke’s hand in his and let himself feel settled by his presence.

It had been a long time since someone could calm him down so quickly just by holding his hand.

Blade slicing clean through the shoulder of his current opponent, Dick found himself grinning. He was jittery and excited, knowing there would be death tonight and all of it would be because of him, feeling powerful and strong and he was too far out of his usual mindset to be disgusted with himself. It would come, later, but for now he had nothing but excitement.

He laughed and wrenched the blade so that it slit a jagged cut that severed most of the idiot’s arm from his shoulder. Pulled the blade back and hacked at his neck. Sent his head flying clean off and sent a spray of blood across his own face and across the floor as the guy’s body landed.

Catlike, he dodged the strike coming from behind him, whirling on his new opponent.

Stabbed them through the heart. Hacked their head off as well.

Ended up getting his hands on a  _ pretty _ little glock midway through his next fight and it wasn’t much of a fight after that. His aim was deadly and there was so little kickback from the gun that he could move from target to target like it was  _ nothing. _ He popped more people than he bothered to keep track of and felt  _ exhilarated. _

He was half-in his head by the time he returned to the nearby safehouse, though.

Half-in his head and ready to curl into Luke as soon as he was cleaned up. Luke would keep him grounded. Luke understood why he was doing this and what it meant that he kept doing it. Luke was… Surprisingly gentle and helpful. Even though Dick had more or less had him kidnapped, he knew he was free to leave whenever and he just… Never did. Even when Dick reminded him.

He showered off the blood and gore and he crawled into the bed.

Luke sat his phone aside and pulled him against his chest.

And they laid there until he fell asleep.

But when he woke, something felt off.

It wasn’t unusual to wake up to Luke already awake and doing his own thing, especially after Dick had spent a night taking out targets for Slade. That shit  _ exhausted _ him on every level including physical so he usually ended up sleeping for long,  _ long _ stretches of time. But Luke alone in the rest of the safehouse doing his thing had a specific feeling and specific set of noises to it.

That was not what was happening right now.

Someone else was here.

Suspicious and nervous, he snuck out of bed. Peeked out of the bedroom.

Bruce sat at the small table with a very disgruntled Luke, and Jason and Roy were off in the corner talking amongst themselves.

“I could send Jason in there to get him,” Bruce was saying, and it wasn’t really a threat, but Luke bristled nonetheless.

“Damn, you really don’t fucking take no for an answer, huh?” Luke spat at him, “He’s  _ sleeping.” _

“That doesn’t explain the blood.” Bruce replied.

“You know what he’s been doing for Deathstroke,” Luke hunched his shoulders up, pulling a  _ very _ unflattering face, “Pretty sure that fucking explains the blood  _ and _ why he’s sleeping and you should leave him the fuck alone.”

Dick felt his stomach churn.

“Bruce.” He said, right as the older man started to open his mouth, and all eyes snapped to him. “What are you doing here?”

He knew he sounded tired, exasperated. He’d wanted to sound more… He didn’t know. But more of something else. Something less annoyed.

“There was a massacre nearby,” Bruce said, matter-of-fact, “And your cell’s GPS put you here. I came to check on you.”

Dick felt himself make a pretty unflattering face, himself. “You mean you came to give me a lecture and drag me back to the Cave.”

Bruce flinched, and Dick wanted to scream because he knew that meant he was right.

“You realize I don’t have a choice in this, right?” Dick asked, flat, “You want this information without having to break into Slade’s place and fight him to get it, don’t you?”

“Dick, if he’s―”

“Don’t start.” He cut him off, “You knew this was what he’d be having anyone you sent do if they lived long enough.”

Bruce flinched again.

Dick scrubbed his face with a hand and shrugged off the doorframe to turn back into the bedroom. “Get out of my safehouse. I have about another twelve hours I need to catch up on before I can deal with you. I’ll call you later.”

There was a silence, but eventually he heard Bruce leave.

Bruce, but not Jason or Roy.

“I think he meant you guys, too,” Luke drawled, half-annoyed.

Dick sighed.

Roy coughed, awkwardly. “He makes a pretty good point, Jay, we should―”

“Dick, what are you doing?” Jason asked, ignoring Roy completely, “You and I both know Slade doesn’t expect that kind of brutality.”

He felt himself go rigid. Felt his breathing pick up in the brief second before his vision went blurry and his hearing went to the dogs. And then he felt everything tip sideways.

And he came to, half-curled on the couch with his head in Luke’s lap.

“―shouldn’t be sticking your fucking noses in, anyway.” Luke was berating them, “Sooner he gets this done the sooner he can stop and I can try and get him back to a point where he doesn’t go beserk when he gets into a fight.”

“You can’t blame me for being  _ worried,” _ Jason replied.

“Worrying isn’t going to help.” Luke was obviously crinkling his nose.

Dick clenched his hand into Luke’s pantleg, weakly. Mumbled, “Don’t get into a fistfight with Jay, babe.”

Luke snorted derisively, “Why not? Scared I’ll bruise his ego, sugar?”

It wrenched a startled sounding laugh from both Jason and Roy.

“Are you two…?” Roy asked, after a moment of silence.

“Something like that.” Luke shrugged, and Dick managed to peek his eyes open to stare across the coffee table at Roy and Jason, “Haven’t really talked about it.”

And just laying there, free of any further questioning, with Jason and Roy and Luke bantering and slowly getting almost comfortable with each other, was nice.

He had the rest of the information Bruce needed.

It was month six, week two.

“I’m not going to be able to live a normal fucking life if I keep doing this,” He said, somewhat distraught, to Slade, “I thought it would help to get it out of my system, but…”

And Slade just gave him a sympathetic look, a pat on the shoulder. “I understand. I imagine you’ll be rejoining your brothers?”

“If I can without hurting anyone…” Dick sighed his agreement. “Might stay off the scene for a few more months.” He tried for a laugh, “Maybe I just need some time off.”

Slade laughed as well.

And he let him go without any further argument, and with Luke’s help he’d packed all of his things back up and they were leaving.

He didn’t even report back to Bruce, for the time being.

Instead, he let Luke press him into  _ his _ bed, in  _ his _ apartment, and make him feel a little less unsteady.

And then, in the morning, he brought Luke with him to go and get a new tattoo.

Luke didn’t question it, just held his hand.

And with it finished and wrapped, later that day, he went to see Bruce to drop off the information he needed and tell him he was taking a much needed break. Bruce accepted it without a fight, eyes concerned even as he settled in and talked to his brothers for the first time in months.

Jason and Luke got along famously, what with Luke’s sharp and sarcastic wit that matched up just right with Jason  _ and _ Roy’s, and even Damian and Tim seemed a little charmed by his brashness and constant quips. That made Dick happy.

And when he was inevitably asked about his mental state and he got a little unsteady even thinking about it, Luke wrapped an arm around him, kissed his forehead, and answered for him. Told them he would be fine, but he needed some time off before that time came. He needed to be off-duty and careful for a while.

He nodded a hollow agreement to that when Tim looked at him for confirmation, and it took another moment of being held and not spoken to for him to pull himself back together. But that was better than passing out entirely at the slightest hint of stress, so at least there was that.

And he thought, maybe, he was going to be okay.

Even if he thought, maybe, he wasn’t ever going to be able to patrol again.

* * *

A month off turned into two, into three, into four, into five, and into six. Six months became a year.

But after a year, and with an engagement ring on his finger, he let himself think he might be able to patrol again. And after thirteen months off-duty he was out on the streets, breathless and excited and flanked by a laughing Red X. And he wasn’t  _ better, _ necessarily, but he’d gotten control of himself. He was able to spar with Red X without being overwhelmed by a desire to actually hurt him, and do the same with others that he sparred with. And being out here, in the cool night air, wind whipping at his cheeks, he felt steady in a way he hadn’t since before he’d gone to work for Slade.

Were there still going to be days and nights where he couldn’t sleep from thoughts of what he’d done?

Yeah, absolutely. They were frequent occurrences.

But with Luke around they were a little less hard to deal with, and as long as he kept himself calm and reminded himself that, in the end, it had gotten Slade and several other big-time villains and anti-heroes who were particularly violent taken off of the streets. Slade had stepped down willingly after urging from his children and from Dick, the others had been… Persuaded… He was usually able to reconcile what he’d done. Many of the people he’d killed probably hadn’t outright deserved to die, and he wouldn’t pretend they did. But most of them had been other villains’ lackeys, or mercenaries after Slade’s head, so, well… If you kill a killer, the amount of killers in the world stays the same, but if you kill two dozen of them…

He shook the thoughts off, a little easier than he could have before, and called for Luke to follow him after a sound he’d heard.

And Luke followed, still laughing.

Patrolling  _ with _ Luke was probably going to be a lot of fun.

But he also wouldn’t complain about having to chase him down again one of these days.

Things felt  _ okay, _ and he would ride the hell out of that wave of okay-ness.

He got married to Luke on a cool evening in late autumn, in an outdoor venue, and Tim spent the whole ceremony crying. Damian, at his side and Tim’s, barely suppressed his own clear need to blubber a little. And, yeah, Dick cried too.

Especially during Luke’s vows―neither of the two of them talked about emotions too much, or their mental states. A lot of their communication was nonverbal and involved picking up on what the other one was feeling and doing what they could to help, even if that was just holding each other. But Luke’s vows told him that the night they’d initially gotten together, he had been considering leaving the country and disappearing. Luke’s vows told him in no uncertain terms that, as much as Luke had saved him by being around for the Slade incident, Dick had saved him as well. Luke’s vows said that for every time he’d done his all to help Dick, Dick had unknowingly done the same in return.

And Dick sobbed.

But overall, it was a perfect wedding as far as he was concerned.

And he felt like things were going to be fine.

Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Bishops Knife Trick by Fall Out Boy too many times (like 20 times in a row) and accidentally connected it to a story idea I'd already had, and now this exists  
> This ended up way longer and way choppier than I intended but I think it works well given the subject matter, and I actually intended a way more bittersweet ending but I'm super gay lately so I just wanted to end it with them getting married >w> they deserve it
> 
> I dunno, I'm just a sucker for the Apprentice arc from Teen Titans and I love incorporating it into things when I can and using all of that character development that they didn't give me in the show - it's very fun to grab a full-grown, 25-year-old Dick and see how mistakes he made as a teenager still pull him apart at the seams, especially Slade-related mistakes. And as always I'm a sucker for some Red X/Dick so it was also fun to pull that in here and see how those two can help each other out
> 
> Anyways, as always, let me know what you thought!
> 
> And, if you've got a second to answer a couple of questions, I've got a [poll](https://forms.gle/t4DJ3RxQdz3L3b9g9) going to see what folks would like to see me writing!


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